


you learn to live like an animal in the jungle where we play

by gay_writes_with_mac



Series: Denara [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Denise Cloyd Lives, Denise Loves Tara, Equally Protective Denise, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Nightmares, Past Starvation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Tara, Trauma, i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24656821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_writes_with_mac/pseuds/gay_writes_with_mac
Summary: Tara isn't like anyone Denise has ever known. Maybe that's what makes her so precious.
Relationships: Tara Chambler/Denise Cloyd
Series: Denara [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782724
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	you learn to live like an animal in the jungle where we play

From the moment their eyes locked Denise was distinctly aware that she and Tara were very different people. The split between them was subtle, but it was there all the same - an ever-present glint in Tara’s eye behind the dullness from her headache, the deep pits in her cheeks where hunger had stretched the skin taut over her cheekbones, the tension held stiffly in her spine like she was ready to dive into action at any moment.

It’s not insurmountable. Not in the slightest. But Tara is braver than her by far and her reflexes are twice as finely tuned as those of the stray cat Denise leaves food out for on her front porch, and Tara stares at her like she’s lost her mind whenever Denise fills a small bowl with _perfectly good food_ and _just leaves it outside for the animals._

Tara is strange and beautiful and like nothing Denise has ever seen before her. Glenn says that they were almost out there too long, fending for themselves against the walkers and other humans too, fighting for food and water and just to keep breathing every day. The first time she gets Tara’s sweatshirt off all she can feel are her ribs, every one of them sticking out prominently, and then the piles of oat cakes and beef jerky and water bottles she found stashed around little hiding spots all over the house make much more sense. It seems odd to her at first, and then she thinks about how long Tara could have been starving out there with no walls to protect her, and then she leaves the little stashes untouched and occasionally tosses a granola bar or oat cake into one of the piles. 

It’s not until she convinces Tara to take her out for a run that it starts to click, though. Tara is on edge from the moment they leave the walls behind, her knife in her right hand and her gleaming Colt revolver on her hip. She cleans it every night. Denise is anxious too, but she doesn’t hum with that nervous, defensive energy that comes off Tara in waves, seeking out danger before danger can seek her. 

And when the walkers come, one and then three and then more until there are at least ten stumbling slowly towards them with hunger painted all over their faces, Tara flies into action before Denise can so much as reach for her knife. There’s that same strange, wild beauty in her killing, a practiced ease to her fluid motions as the blood sprays arc into the air that brings a constant reminder that Tara has done this before. That Tara has had to do this before. That Tara will have to do this every day for the rest of her life. That it’s easy for Tara to kill. It’s a _feral_ thing, an animalian instinct taking over, and Tara pounces like a wolf on the stumbling, snarling monsters.

She brings down the last one with her knife blade straight through the side of its head, shattering bone on its deadly path to the barely reanimated brain. The snarling is abruptly silenced, and Tara wrenches her blade free as the rotting body slumps gracelessly to the earthen floor. When it’s over, she just stands there, surrounded by the carnage and the blood-spattered forest.

Denise doesn’t know what to do. Tara’s eyes are very far away. She could reach out but that could only make it worse, a burning reminder that she will never fully comprehend what it’s like to live through what Tara has lived through. When Tara was fighting for her life on the open road, starving to death slowly and surrounded by monsters, Denise was tucked away cozily in a spacious house with her books and air conditioning and fresh, clean water at her fingertips and an unlimited supply of oats. Their paths through the end of the world have been brutally different, and even though they’re both standing together in a clearing filled with walker bodies, the fact that Tara killed them and Denise stood and watched speaks volumes.

Slowly, not without hesitation, Denise comes up in front of her, gently working the knife from Tara’s clenched, blood-spattered fist. “I’m scared,” she says softly, reaching for Tara’s hand. “Can we go home…?”

Tara nods and shakes her head a little and then she seems to come back to her, the ghost of a reassuring smile flitting across her face as she takes Denise’s hand and squeezes it. “‘Course, babe. Told you it’s pretty rough out here.”

Denise honestly isn’t sure if Tara knows that they’re going home for her rather than for Denise. She doesn’t need to be. All she needs to know is that Tara is at home and that she’s safe and that she’ll be somewhere where Denise can try to heal a few of those lasting scars.

That night, Tara starts to toss and turn and whimper as what pains Denise to call _usual._ She’s never managed to fully chase away the nightmares, not for one single night, not even the evening that she pressed Tara against the sheets, inverting their usual positions, and made love to her until the other woman could barely move. That had been their most peaceful night by far, and Denise had started to think that maybe she’d managed to bring her some peace, and then Tara had stiffened in her arms and started to plead with someone only she could see and Denise admitted defeat in yet another round against a whole host of demons. 

She’s learned not to try to wake her, because that just makes her thrash and scream and flail and do anything to fight back, seeing love as an assault, desperately trying to defend herself, because even in sleep Tara can’t let her guard down. So Denise just lays there in silence and looks up at the white ceiling and lets a few silent tears trickle down her cheeks as Tara fights her battles.

When she finally startles herself awake, she lies in bed gasping for a few moments, sweat coming off her overly warm body despite the crisp coolness of the linen sheets Denise makes to perfection every day. Tara gets up, and Denise doesn’t try to stop her. Footsteps, their bedroom door opens, and then a thin line of light from the bathroom down the hall. The faucet runs for a few moments, silence, and then Tara shuffling back down the hall. At night, she doesn’t walk, she _shuffles,_ sock feet padding every step, for the purpose of what Denise can only guess as avoiding detection. 

The door shuts again, and Denise’s heart melts and breaks and shatters with love all over again when she hears Tara hesitate, shutting the door ever so slowly to minimize the squeaking of the hinges before it clicks back into place, and Tara does even that quietly so as not to disturb Denise. She shuffles over and climbs back into bed, pulling the cool sheets up to her chin like she always does, her feet tucked carefully under the same rectangle of fabric. Tara never lets any part of her body hang over the edge of the bed, never lets her feet poke out from underneath the sheets - Denise assumes she still, in part, subscribes to the childhood delusion that the bed is a safe place, a sanctuary, that nothing can get you under the covers. Tara deserves all the sanctuary she can get.

Tara starts to shake slightly, her back facing Denise, and even muffled by a pillow, Denise can hear her very quiet gasps as she cries. She gives up the charade of sleep at once, moving over to Tara’s side of the bed. Her arms go around her easily, hands stroking Tara’s hair and tracing intricate patterns down her arms. Tara leans back into her at once, her back pressed against Denise’s chest, melting into her embrace as she cries almost silently. Denise just shushes her softly, careful to keep the sheets all the way up to Tara’s chin to keep anything from getting her. 

Even when Tara’s tears dry, she doesn’t leave, doesn’t slip away, her hands resting over Denise’s where they’ve settled over her stomach, keeping her in place and holding her. She’s warm and real and very, very present, and Denise is so overwhelmed with love by this strange and lovely girl in her arms that there’s nothing she can do to stop herself from saying it out loud. “I love you.”

Tara is silent for a long moment, and Denise’s stomach drops into her knees as she prepares to be pushed away, but then her grip tightens over Denise’s knuckles, only drawing her closer. “I love you,” she murmurs, and her voice is hoarse from crying, but it’s the most beautiful thing Denise has ever heard.

“Get some sleep, honey,” she says softly, pressing a kiss to the back of Tara’s head. “You’ll feel a little better in the morning. I’ll be here.”

And she will be. It’s a promise.


End file.
